


Honey, Don't Feed Me (I Will Come Back)

by sysrae



Series: Good Call [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Castiel, Dean writes poetry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Past Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Writer Dean, breakfast foods as an expression of love, drunken poetry, everyone really needs a hug, gratuitous pixar reference, sort of, toxic masculinity and the consequences thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with wanting to bang the guy you talked down from an actual ledge, Dean thinks sourly, is that there's no good goddamn way to ask him out. Never mind what it says about Dean as a person, that he's been into Cas since their first conversation without any life-or-death overtones: at what point in a friendship that develops out of something like that can you ever say, without sounding like an insensitive asshole, 'So, I know you're going through a rough patch right now, but you're stupidly hot and talented and I really wanna suck your dick in a more than friends-with-benefits way?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with wanting to bang the guy you talked down from an actual ledge, Dean thinks sourly, is that there's no good goddamn way to ask him out. Never mind what it says about Dean as a person, that he's been into Cas since their first conversation without any life-or-death overtones: at what point in a friendship that develops out of something like that can you ever say, without sounding like an insensitive asshole, 'So, I know you're going through a rough patch right now, but you're stupidly hot and talented and I really wanna suck your dick in a more than friends-with-benefits way?'

You can't, is the answer. _Dean_ can't, because that makes it seem like he's only spent the past month hanging out with Cas in the hopes of eventually getting laid, and not because he's this amazing, clever, sarcastic guy who's fast becoming one of the most important people in Dean's life. Shit, it's not like he was hurting for friends – he's got Charlie and Jo and Ash and Victor, plus Sammy and his weirdo clique – but there's something about Cas that draws him in, lights him up, puts an itch in his skin that flares into fire whenever they touch. Dean's utterly gone on him, and he doesn't know if it's because Cas is unattainable or if he's just that goddamn lonely, but he's never felt like this before, and it's starting to drive him crazy.

Which is why he's currently staring at his phone, thumb hovering over the 'send' button on a text he's reworded no less than five times in the fifteen minutes since he first sat down to write it, as though that's in any way a normal thing to be doing.

What the text currently says is this: _hey cas, u busy 2nite? know its been a big week but im up 4 a drink if u are :)_

What Dean wants the text to say, but is far too chickenshit to actually write, is this:  _Hey Cas, I know you're having a hard time and I hate to push my crap onto you, but today's the third anniversary of my dad's death and Sammy's away with Jess, and god, I don't want to spend it alone._

Which is the other problem with wanting to bang the guy he talked down from an actual ledge: Cas deserves someone who's emotionally stable, and despite what he's been pretending for the past month, Dean just... isn't. If he's any good at helping Cas to deal with his crap – and apparently he doesn't suck, according to Cas's therapist – it's because Dean's been through enough bullshit himself to know how he'd want to be treated, if he was in Cas's shoes. And it's not like he's ever lied to Cas about his life, per se; he knows Dean has nightmares and trouble sleeping, knows his dad never accepted him, knows it's a goddamn miracle Dean ever got into college, let alone wound up doing English, but he doesn't know the details behind any of it, the dark stuff that keeps him up at night. Which isn't exactly surprising, all things considered; shit, there's stories not even Sammy knows, and Dean's worked hard to keep it that way. Some things, he just doesn't mention, and he's made his peace with that. 

But there's something about Cas – about the fact that he's actually fucking brave enough to go to therapy, for one thing – that makes him feel like a liar. Like he's spent all this time pretending to be an actual, functional human because he's too big a coward to admit to being fucked up. Cas is getting himself together, but Dean is running flat out just to stay in the same shitty place he's always been, and Jesus, Cas deserves so much better than him, it's not even funny. 

Dean deletes the text, shoves his phone on the table, and gets himself a beer.

One beer quickly turns into several, and by the time it's actually a respectable hour for drinking, Dean's already lost count. He's not thinking about Sammy, or his dad, or Cas; he's blasting AC/DC as he rummages through his kitchen cupboards, looking for that half-bottle of scotch he knows is in there somewhere. When he finally finds it, he lets out a triumphant noise and takes a pull straight from the neck, because restraint is for days when he's not actively repressing the memory of what happened when dad caught him kissing Ryan James behind the school office, or the time Sammy ran away on his watch, or what it felt like to bury his dad when he was still so fucking mad at him, he could barely get through the eulogy without shouting. 

His phone rings, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn't answer it. 

Instead, he changes the music to Audioslave, thumps the scotch bottle down on the table, grabs a notebook and the nearest pen and starts to write, his serifs sharp and spiky. 

He writes it in bouts, the same way he gets drunk or maudlin in bouts, a chicken-and-egg dilemma of rage and creativity. It's not that he buys that bullshit about needing to be damaged in order to write, and even though it's not a new thing, he's never defined himself by it, isn't afraid that getting better means castrating whatever part of him spews out words when the rest of his brain can't function. He only does it this way because there's some things Dean can't face unless he's too drunk or angry to worry about self-censorship, and poetry is one of them. 

Fucking  _poetry._ God, his dad's laughing somewhere. 

He writes until his wrist cramps and the pages blur and the scotch is gone, and maybe the phone rings again between those things, but he doesn't answer it, just slides down onto the floor and lies there, because it's surprisingly easy, or maybe just satisfying, to let gravity have its way with him. Besides, the wood is cool on his cheek, and once his playlist stops, it's almost peaceful.

Then the banging starts, a dissonant string of thumps on the door, and Dean groans, because getting up means effort and he doesn't  _want_ that, but it's kind of hard to fall into a proper drunk sleep with that racket going on, so he moans and grumbles and shoves himself onto his knees and elbows and sways upright, swearing as he barks his shin on the table corner. He hits it hard enough that the empty bottle and notebook both go tumbling to the floor, which is where  _he_ wants to be, the lucky inanimate bastards. Still, the banging persists, and so does he.

Unlocking the door takes longer than usual, but only because the world is spinning. Dean blinks, trying and failing to settle things, and finds himself staring at Castiel Novak.

'Cas?' he says, his voice drunk-roughened to the point of pain. He clears his throat, wincing at the scrape of it, and grips the door, struggling to stay vertical. 'You, uh. Shit. 'm not really, uh.' He laughs, scrubbing feebly at his eyes. 'Sorry, man. 'm kinda fucked up.'

'Dean,' says Cas, a world of gentle worry in the syllable. 'Why didn't you call me?'

'Wanted to,' Dean says, stumbling backwards as the door's motion swings him off balance. He doesn't quite fall, but only because Cas surges forwards and catches him, a strong arm slung around his ribs. Dean leans into him, shamelessly craving the contact, flushed at the proximity and too far gone to remember it's something he can't have and doesn't deserve. He presses his forehead to Cas's shoulder, panting a little, and mumbles, 'Always want you, Cas.' 

Cas inhales sharply, tightening his grip on Dean. 'You only have to ask,' he says, so softly Dean thinks he might have just imagined it. And then, more firmly, 'Christ, how much have you had to drink?'

'Too much. Not enough.' He laughs, and it comes out broken. 'Y'should know, Cas, 'm not – 'm no good. Not for what I want, not for you, 'm a fucking mess –'

'Dean –'

'No, no. Liss'n.  _Listen._ ' He pulls himself up, away from Cas, and just for a moment, the world stops spinning. They're face to face, and Cas is so fucking gorgeous, all tousle-haired and stubble-jawed and wide-blue-eyed, with his big clever hands and long clever fingers and cleverer mind, and Dean digs deep for his last tattered vestige of lucid speech and says, without slurring, 'I didn't call because I didn't deserve to have you here, and you don't deserve to have to deal with me like this. But now you're here, and I know it's selfish, but I don't want you to go.' He gulps, staring at Cas. 'Please don't go?'

Cas makes a noise in the back of his throat and pulls Dean into a hug. 'You ass,' he whispers. 'Of course I'm not going anywhere.'

'Oh,' says Dean, eyes slipping shut. 'Oh, good.'

And then he passes out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is not a light man at the best of times; reduced to deadweight, he's almost unliftable. But somehow Cas manages to drag-pull-heave him into the bedroom, settling Dean on the mattress with minimal bruising to both of them, heart aching only slightly less than his muscles.

'Sorry,' Dean mumbles, his eyes firmly shut.

Cas shushes him, fussing with the pillow, the blankets. Dean's already barefoot, and there's no pressing need to remove his clothes, so in the end, Cas settles for tugging the comforter up to waist-level, then nudging Dean onto his side. He doesn't stir, but his breathing's even, and once Cas is satisfied that he's not in any immediate danger, he goes back out to the kitchen, grabs some painkillers and a tall glass of water, and takes them in to the bedside table, ready for whenever Dean wakes up. It feels like such a small, inadequate gesture, but there isn't much else he can do that doesn't involve a creepy bedside vigil, and so he sighs and exits the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

There's an empty bottle of scotch on the floor, along with a number of discarded beer cans, and after a moment of indecision, Cas sets about picking them up, dumping them all in the recycling box Dean keeps beside the pedal-bin. His throat feels hot and tight with misplaced anger, useless guilt that he didn't get here sooner. If he'd only realised what day it was –

 _But that's the point_ , he thinks, palms braced on the edge of the kitchen bench. _He didn't want you to know, and so you didn't._

He'd been reading at home when his phone rang, and for a delighted moment, he'd thought it was Dean. They hadn't seen each other for a couple of days, and Cas missed him the way he always misses Dean, as though they ought by rights to be waking up together. He knows there's been something more to their interactions than just friendship; has been steadily working himself up to making the first move for the past two weeks – because Benny had suggested, not unreasonably, that Dean might be too uncertain of what Cas wanted to do it himself – except that, when he answered the phone, it was the wrong Winchester.

He's only met Sam once, and even though they swapped numbers – 'to keep better tabs on our brothers,' Sam said, and Cas had readily agreed – this was their first actual phonecall.

'Is Dean with you?' Sam asked, without preamble.

'No,' said Cas, his stomach lurching. 'Why? Is something wrong?'

Sam sighed. 'He's not answering his phone. Any other time, I wouldn't read into it, but today being what it is, I feel like someone should check in with him, you know?'

'What's special about today?'

'He didn't tell you? Typical.' Sam made a sad, exasperated noise. 'It's, uh – well, it's three years today since our dad died, and he and Dean didn't exactly get on, and I'm usually there with him, but this thing with Jess –'

Cas felt strangely numb. 'Your father died today?'

'Look, Cas, don't take it personally, okay? I know you guys are close; it's why I called you. He doesn't talk to anyone about this stuff, and he's basically trained his friends to leave him the hell alone, but it's not what he needs, and I'm worried about him. You think you could maybe swing by his place, make sure he's all right?'

'Of course,' Cas said, and Sam's relief was palpable.

'Thanks, man,' he said. 'I owe you one.'

And then they'd hung up, and Cas had tried, for the sake of politeness, to call ahead and let Dean know he was coming, but as with Sam, he hadn't answered, and the whole way over, he'd vacillated between anxiety and guilt.

And then Dean opened the door, eyes bloodshot and wet, so drunk he could barely stand, and everything he said put a crack in Cas's heart. All this time, he's been leaning on Dean for support, fretting in his therapy sessions over whether or not he's functional enough to date again, never once considering that Dean might need help, too, despite what he knows of his history.

 _Nice one, Novak,_ Cas tells himself. _You're a real friend._

He straightens, looking between Dean's bedroom and the front door. A small, embarrassed part of him wants to go, unwilling to face the consequences of his own neglect; the rest of him, however, wants to stay, if only to make sure that Dean's all right. After all, he promised Sam, and it's not like he has anywhere more important to be.

Cas runs a hand through his hair, and heads for the couch.

He's about to sit down when his foot kicks something on the floor. Frowning, he bends and picks it up. It's a cheap Spirax notebook, the cover spun completely around, so that it's open on a written page. He doesn't mean to read it, but the words catch his eye, and as their implications sink in, he sits down, hard.

It's poetry. Dean's poetry.

'Oh, god,' Castiel whispers.

Heart pounding, he rereads the page.

 

_I didn't spill blood on your grave_

_ & in return_

_you courteously stayed dead;_

_I laid down salt to make sure of it,_

_tequila-rimed and sharp_

_as your second-favourite sin_

 

_(you told me men don't cry, & now _

_I have no words_

_for what grief makes me:_

_all I know_

_is that my cheeks are wet as a statue's,_

_oozing some miraculous ichor,_

_some false sign_

_of the soul's inhabitance)_

 

_I wish you'd died sooner_

_and maybe that's how_

_I know I'm yours._

 

_(years later, a lover asks_

_about your marks, those postage stamps to hell,_

_and dad, you'd be so proud of me:_

_I left him rather than answer.)_

 

_I didn't spill blood on your grave,_

_is the problem._

_your ghost is hungry,_

_but now as then_

 

_there's nothing I have you want,_

_ & nothing to feed it._

 

The words are a gut-punch, but worse is the fact that it's not the only poem; there's pages of them, the handwriting unmistakably Dean's, and when he sees the date on each one – there's no titles; only the date, and a number – Cas realises they've all been written today. It feels like a violation to keep reading, but he can't seem to stop, if only because it explains the state he found Dean in, the naked grief in his eyes.

And then he turns the page again, and suddenly, he can't breathe.

 

_Once upon a time, I tried_

_to leave the world the way you said I_

_entered it – in blood, in water._

_Silent as stone._

 

_You pulled me out_

_like a fish you couldn't quite throw back,_

_the lights on my eyes like scales_

_in which_

_your judgement weighed_

_but would not lift_

 

_(there were no scales_

_on my eyes)_

 

_I never told. You said_

_I shouldn't tell, you said_

_that sort of thing happens sometimes, as though_

_the desire to die is like an avalanche_

_or a tax return, as sudden a function_

_as turning the lights on_

_or off_

 

_(your rescue_

_stank of single malt)_

 

_but later, when the bath was dry_

_you said to me,_

_'I tried it too,_

_but suicide, son, it's not_

_what real men do.'_

 

_(and then you killed yourself_

_and proved it true)_

 

Fingers shaking, Castiel shuts the book and sets it down. He wasn't supposed to see any of that, but now that he has, and he can't pretend he hasn't. It's too deep a betrayal; he's furious with himself, unable to comprehend his own disloyalty.

He has to tell Dean. Of course he does.

And Dean is going to hate him for it.

Miserable with guilt, Cas lies down on the sofa, face buried in a cushion. He feels like the talking dog from _Up_ in all his shamefaced glory: _I was hiding under the porch because I love you,_ except for _porch_ , say _couch_ , and for _love_ , say –

Oh.

_Oh._

'Oh, says Cas, in his smallest voice.

Outside, it starts to rain.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean wakes up with a hangover, which isn't exactly new. What _is_ new, and entirely unexpected, is the water and Advil set on his bedside table; as is the fact that he's in his bed at all. Wincing a little, he grabs the pills and swigs the water, wincing at the sour tang in his stomach. He doesn't think he'll have to throw up – he started drinking early, but he's got a pretty high tolerance, and he started on a full stomach – but he still feels like death, and there's an uncomfortable black spot in his memory around how he got from the floor to here.

And then he remembers Cas, and just about passes out again from the strength of his embarrassment.

'Fuck,' he groans. 'Oh, fucking _hell_.'

Cas put him to bed. Cas left him water and painkillers. Cas _saw him drunk_ , and not in the sociable, tipsy way, but in the staggering blackout fugue that's shameful enough on its own account and triply so when witnessed. And as for the things he said –

Dean cups a hand over his eyes and squeezes, hating himself with a passion. If he's very, very lucky, Cas will have left him a note expressing his clear disgust, thereby sparing Dean the agony of having to call him and be rebuffed. _God, please let there be a note._ The idea of having to squirm through a phonecall – or worse, hear the actual goddamn disappointment in Cas's voice – is almost enough to turn his stomach over.

Instead, he swings his legs over the mattress, shakily tests his weight, and shambles out into the lounge room.

Where he stops, staring dumbly.

Castiel Novak is in his kitchen.

Cooking breakfast.

Barefoot.

Dean makes a tiny, animal noise that can best be described as _wounded_ , frozen in place as Castiel turns to look at him.

'Hey, Cas,' he rasps. His gaze flicks to the stovetop, where several thick rashers of bacon are sizzling alongside eggs and sausages. 'Oh, my god. You –' He looks at Cas again, some thick, unnameable feeling clogging his throat. 'How are you even real?'

Cas shrugs, smiling, but there's something off about his expression. His eyes are tight, and for all he's clearly made himself at home, he's radiating tension, awkward as he nods Dean to the table.

'Sit,' he says, which isn't an answer, but Dean's too dazed to question it, and anyway, his knees are shaking. He pulls up a chair, drymouthed as Cas proceeds to serve him up an actual hot breakfast, complete with toast and coffee the way he likes it.

'You're an angel,' Dean says, wonderingly. 'An actual goddamn angel.'

'I'm really not,' Cas says. His voice is quiet, eyes downcast. 'I'm anything but.'

Dean pauses, a forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth, and it's only then that he realises Cas doesn't have a plate in front of him, despite the fact that he's made more than enough food for two. His heart starts to pound, and even though his stomach's growling, he puts the fork down, staring across the table at Cas.

'Talk to me,' he says. 'Cas? What's wrong?'

Cas can't look at him. 'Dean, I want you to know, I would never – if I'd realised, I would've stopped, I just – it didn't even occur to me that it might be something personal, and by the time I did –'

'Oh my god.' Dean feels queasy. 'Cas, did we – did I – Jesus, did we have sex last night?'

'What?' Cas jerks his head up, horrified. 'No! Why would you even – you were fall-down drunk, I wouldn't take advantage of anyone in that condition –'

'Then what?' he asks, completely baffled. 'What could you possibly have done that merits an apology? 'Cos from where I'm sitting, you've put up with way more of my crap than anyone should have to deal with, made me fucking _breakfast_ –'

'I read your poems,' Cas says in a rush. 'I was cleaning up and the notebook was open and I just, there's no excuse for it, I should've put it straight down again, but I didn't, Dean, and I'm so, so sorry –'

'You read my poems,' Dean says, stunned. He barely remembers writing them, but god, he can only imagine the contents. Heat flushes through him, shame and fear and ugly guilt. 'You – I – oh, _fuck_ –'

'I'm so sorry, Dean,' Cas whispers. 'It was a violation of trust, and I'll understand completely if you can't forgive me for it.'

'You're still here?' He stares at Cas, uncomprehending. 'You read them, but you didn't leave?'

Cas hunches in on himself. 'I'm sorry, I'll go right now, I can just –'

'What? No!' Dean says, lurching upright in the exact same instant Cas pushes out of his chair. He's shaking all over, hot and cold roiling under his skin, pulse thundering erratically. 'Please don't go, please, I didn't mean – fuck, I didn't mean it like that, I just – you stayed? You _stayed_ , Cas.' Dean swallows, trying desperately to find the right words. 'The stuff I write, it's damaged, because I'm damaged. People don't stay for that. It's why they leave.'

Cas's mouth hangs open. 'You're not angry with me?'

Dean laughs, shaky and thin. 'I don't think I could ever be angry with you.'

'Oh,' says Cas. He looks like he's about to cry. 'Oh.'

'So, uh.' Dean grips the edge of the table, tilting his head at the stove. 'You gonna make me eat alone, or what?'

'Dean, I –'

'Because I gotta say, this looks amazing.' He tries for a grin, his heart beating _stay stay stay_. 'Doesn't seem fair, you cooking all this and not eating any.'

Slowly, tremulously, Cas smiles. The expression slides over his face like sunlight, and something in Dean clicks home, like a fouled cog suddenly spinning true. 'I would like that,' Cas says – softly, like it's a secret they're sharing. 'Very much so.'

'Well, then.' Dean sits back down and smiles in turn. 'Go grab yourself a plate.'  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand done! This fic was written while listening to Hozier's It Will Come Back on gratuitous repeat, and because I'm exactly that sort of nerd, here's a video of me singing it, in case that's a thing you'd like: http://fozmeadows.tumblr.com/post/122358893017/for-the-curious-this-is-what-happens-when-i#notes

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Hozier again; this time, from the lyrics to It Will Come Back.
> 
> The poetry is mine, written specifically for this fic.
> 
> WHAT AM I EVEN DOING HOW DID THIS HAPPEN


End file.
